BARBARA JORDAN: AMERICAN HERO
By Mary Beth Rogers
Bantam Books, 1998
Paperback, 2000
ISBN 0-553-38066
My sister gave me this book for Christmas, but told me she needed to borrow it as soon as I was through reading it, because it was worth two books in her local book club. I agree- it is worth two or three.
The book is a biography of perhaps the most notable black woman of the twentieth century, Barbara Jordan (1936-1996), for several terms a congresswoman from Texas. Jordan became a national figure when she served on the House Judiciary Committee during the Nixon impeachment hearings.
Rogers provides a biography that is entertaining to read, insightful, and analytical. Rogers and Jordan knew each other, but Rogers freely admits that Jordan was an intensely private person who very few knew very well.
“I worked to come to terms with this remarkable woman who survived the complexities of public life and the realities of racial politics, turning away from the both with surprising contentment. And, of course, as a white woman, I had to come to terms with her blackness, with what it meant to her- and to me.” (p.xviii)
I can remember quite vividly each of the famous speeches of Jordan’s life: the two at the impeachment hearings, and the keynote speeches from the 1976 and 1992 Democratic Conventions. They are memories for me, but this book brought Jordan- and her life- to life.
Rogers begins with a historical irony that Jordan was forever unaware of: her great-grandfather, Edward A. Patton, was the last black to serve in the Texas legislature during reconstruction. His last speech was of sufficient persuasiveness to delay the institution of the poll tax for several decades. Never the less, he was defeated in 1892, shot at by the local sheriff, and in fear for his life, left Texas and his family, never to return. Throughout the book, Rogers does an enlightening job of describing the historical context into which Barbara was born, and the family context in which she was raised.
Of great interest to pastors, beyond the historical elements, is the way that Rogers comes to an understanding of Jordan’s thinking on religion and politics through two theologians: Howard Thurman and Reinhold Niebuhr. Rogers devotes 4 pages in the book to Thurman’s influence, more than any other one person (except perhaps Lyndon Johnson).
“Barbara Jordan also made time during her second year (at Boston University Law School) to attend Sunday Services at marsh Chapel, the religious center of Boston University. She was drawn to its preacher, Howard Thurman, who served as dean of the chapel and as a professor in the Boston University School of Theology. She heard in Thurman’s sermons a way to change how she thought about and experienced religion, a way to free herself from Ben Jordan’s harsh interpretation of the scriptures and his narrow path to living a Christian life.” (p. 68)
In fact, says Rogers, Jordan briefly considered pursuing a degree in theology. Rogers gives a synopsis of Thurman’s career, his association with Martin Luther King, Jr., and then returns to Jordan:
“Jordan was so taken with Thurman’s sermons that she literally preached them to herself. She would take the program from church services back to her dormitory and preach Thurman’s sermons anew to her roommates, ‘whether they wanted to hear them or not. I was making sure I had it all,’ she said. ‘If I could preach it again, I really did have it.’” (p. 71)
Niebuhr appears after Jordan has become a skilled politician, and it is not exactly clear from Rogers’ writing at what point Jordan actually discovered him.
“For Niebuhr, both political and moral realists understood the use of power, and the moral realist was willing to use political power to achieve some human ‘good.’ Jordan had become a Niebuhr-style moral realist, with an understanding that if she wanted to promote human good, then she had to have enough power to operate effectively.” (p.153/154)
There are, in fact, several places in the book where Rogers uses Niebuhr as a way to understand and explain Jordan.
Regarding Jordan, the thing that most amazed me was the almost natural astuteness she had, politically. Jordan served parts of three terms in the Texas Senate, and then three terms in Congress. But almost from the beginning, she was able to figure out ways to be an “effective” legislator. Those who are considering that ways that “outsiders” enter into “inner circles”, as well as those who are simply fascinated with politics, will both find treasure in Rogers’ description of Jordan’s legislative techniques.
Of great interest in the book are those pages that deal with segregation, the African American Church, Barbara’s experiences on her college debate team, and the research that she devoted to various issues (including impeachment). But two other things I found to be especially captivating, and the two are intertwined.
The first is the matter of Jordan’s “voice.” For Rogers, this is not simply a matter of timbre, or even cadence and rhythm. It had also to do with authenticity and passion. Speaking of Jordan’s speech during the impeachment hearings, Rogers writes: “Her passion conveyed the clarity of righteousness and justice.”
Many chapters later, Rogers considers Jordan the person, and writes: “Before Watergate, all she wanted was to be a politician- not a statesman, or a moral leader, or a guardian of government ethics, and certainly not a civil rights leader. After Watergate, Jordan added one more label to describe herself: patriot. She considered the U.S. Constitution her personal charter for freedom.” (p. 324)
By the force of destiny perhaps, Barbara had discovered her core beliefs. And the passion with which she believed them gave power to the voice that expressed them. Rogers book powerfully describes how that larger voice matured in the years after she left Congress.
I remember a great amount of mystery associated with her decision not to seek another term. Rogers’ explains in depth the combination of physical strain caused by multiple sclerosis, and the strain of disillusionment caused by differences with the Carter administration, and the explanation is helpful. But what is enlightening is Rogers’ study of Jordan’s return to private life, and her emergence as a voice of authority as a private citizen. And, Rogers’ develops a definition of patriot that defies old clichés and stereotypes. Having recently read David McCullough’s “John Adams,” Roger’s portrait of the citizen Jordan reminded me, in many ways, of the ideals of citizen Adams.
Quoting Jordan, “There is no reason why a country as large and powerful as we are should not occupy the highest moral position possible in relation to other countries…The core of morality is to do unto others as you would have them do unto you…I believe each individual should have a principled core of his or her being that cannot get negotiated out. That has served me well.” (p. 325/326)
And in our shallow post 911 way of defining patriotism, we ought to consider once again Jordan’s love of the rule of law, her belief in democracy, and her great sense of personal integrity. If we did, I believe they would point us to a much richer, nobler, definition of “patriot.”
George R. Pasley
January 7, 2003
Thursday, August 7, 2008
AMERICAN CONGREGATIONS
AMERICAN CONGREGATIONS
Volume 2: New Perspectives in the study of congregations
James P. Wind and James W. Lewis, editors
University of Chicago Press, 1994
ISBN 0-226-90188-2
288 pages
The book itself consists of 8 essays, plus a brief afterword. Of the authors, I was familiar with only one, Martin Marty. But his particular essay, Public and Private: Congregation as Meeting Place, I found particularly difficult to read. Not so the other seven.
The book is divided into three parts. Part one contains the most essays, 4, and places congregations in their historical and sociological contexts. The Gilkey essay that I commented on earlier is located in part one, and it develops the theme of congregations as religious communities. I was further delighted with the closing pages of that essay, in which Gilkey ponders the loss of personal piety within the leadership of mainline congregations. He begins by describing his father (an American Baptist) theologically, and then proceeds by describing him spiritually:
“Like his friend Harry Emerson Fosdick, he was about as liberal theologically and religiously as you could get. Nevertheless he spent an hour each day on his knees at prayer, another hour reading the Bible, and each morning we had family prayers for twenty minutes.”
But Gilkey is not simply calling for a return to the old ways. First, he considers the curricula in our schools of divinity as lacking if they do not have reflection and guidance on spirituality (minister AND congregation) at the heart of their curriculum. But second, he considers an experience in which he presented a paper on ethics at a conference. There was also a paper presented from a Buddhist perspective:
“I exemplifies in a way a modern version of Augustine’s ‘faith finding its perfection in love,’ or of Luther’s ‘faith is the doer, love is the deed.’ The monk’s treatise reversed all this: all the ethical acts he referred to (the ‘steps on the way”) preceded and made possible the religious: the slow discipline of the self and its desires, ascetic practices, meditative techniques of all sorts, acts of charity and confession, and so on.” (p. 129)
The second part of the book consists of two essays that dealt with traditions. I found particularly insightful Dorothy C. Bass’ writing on Congregations and the Bearing of Traditions. She lays out a strong case for congregations not only as the bearers of tradition, but as the shapers of tradition. “The question of what any tradition means is part of that tradition itself, and as long as the tradition lives the question remains in dispute. Congregations, even without knowing it, are immersed in this argument. They do not simply inherit tradition; they contribute to it. A living congregation does not leave a living tradition unaffected.” (p. 185)
The third and final part of the book deals with congregational leadership. The first essay is a historical study of how leadership has evolved in various types of American congregations (the book is primarily Christian, and protestant, but it gives considerable thought to Catholic congregations, and consistent, if less substantial thought, to non-Christian traditions). The final essay of the book, however, deals with leadership in Black congregations- in ways that both critique AND offer possibilities for the rest of us to consider. Since I was so caught up in Gilkey’s earlier thoughts regarding congregations as “Places of rescue,” I was given a bit of practical example by Franklin’s words:
”In the black tradition, the altar prayer or pastoral prayer is a significant therapeutic moment. In the absence of a formal ritual of confession, this moment permits congregants to have their personal and collective sinfulness named and absolved by the pastor or prayer leader. Such moments are never rushed; people are given time, as Howard Thurman said, to “center down” and remove themselves from the turbulence and traffic of their lives. In addition to the time and space for intimate communion with God, emotional license is given to each praying person to experience God’s response of liberation. Persons may do grief work, weep, express vulnerability, and make moral resolutions to do the right thing in the future.
Ironically, and fortunately, such intimate, private, personal spiritual work is done in the communal, public context so that one is discouraged from conceptualizing her or his prayer needs nonrelationally. Communal prayer challenges religious privatization as it gathers up the cares of the entire community and articulates them as the common existential expression of the people.” (p. 261)
I considered this book to be, for both theological and practical reasons, well worth the price of purchase and the time for reading.
George R. Pasley
Volume 2: New Perspectives in the study of congregations
James P. Wind and James W. Lewis, editors
University of Chicago Press, 1994
ISBN 0-226-90188-2
288 pages
The book itself consists of 8 essays, plus a brief afterword. Of the authors, I was familiar with only one, Martin Marty. But his particular essay, Public and Private: Congregation as Meeting Place, I found particularly difficult to read. Not so the other seven.
The book is divided into three parts. Part one contains the most essays, 4, and places congregations in their historical and sociological contexts. The Gilkey essay that I commented on earlier is located in part one, and it develops the theme of congregations as religious communities. I was further delighted with the closing pages of that essay, in which Gilkey ponders the loss of personal piety within the leadership of mainline congregations. He begins by describing his father (an American Baptist) theologically, and then proceeds by describing him spiritually:
“Like his friend Harry Emerson Fosdick, he was about as liberal theologically and religiously as you could get. Nevertheless he spent an hour each day on his knees at prayer, another hour reading the Bible, and each morning we had family prayers for twenty minutes.”
But Gilkey is not simply calling for a return to the old ways. First, he considers the curricula in our schools of divinity as lacking if they do not have reflection and guidance on spirituality (minister AND congregation) at the heart of their curriculum. But second, he considers an experience in which he presented a paper on ethics at a conference. There was also a paper presented from a Buddhist perspective:
“I exemplifies in a way a modern version of Augustine’s ‘faith finding its perfection in love,’ or of Luther’s ‘faith is the doer, love is the deed.’ The monk’s treatise reversed all this: all the ethical acts he referred to (the ‘steps on the way”) preceded and made possible the religious: the slow discipline of the self and its desires, ascetic practices, meditative techniques of all sorts, acts of charity and confession, and so on.” (p. 129)
The second part of the book consists of two essays that dealt with traditions. I found particularly insightful Dorothy C. Bass’ writing on Congregations and the Bearing of Traditions. She lays out a strong case for congregations not only as the bearers of tradition, but as the shapers of tradition. “The question of what any tradition means is part of that tradition itself, and as long as the tradition lives the question remains in dispute. Congregations, even without knowing it, are immersed in this argument. They do not simply inherit tradition; they contribute to it. A living congregation does not leave a living tradition unaffected.” (p. 185)
The third and final part of the book deals with congregational leadership. The first essay is a historical study of how leadership has evolved in various types of American congregations (the book is primarily Christian, and protestant, but it gives considerable thought to Catholic congregations, and consistent, if less substantial thought, to non-Christian traditions). The final essay of the book, however, deals with leadership in Black congregations- in ways that both critique AND offer possibilities for the rest of us to consider. Since I was so caught up in Gilkey’s earlier thoughts regarding congregations as “Places of rescue,” I was given a bit of practical example by Franklin’s words:
”In the black tradition, the altar prayer or pastoral prayer is a significant therapeutic moment. In the absence of a formal ritual of confession, this moment permits congregants to have their personal and collective sinfulness named and absolved by the pastor or prayer leader. Such moments are never rushed; people are given time, as Howard Thurman said, to “center down” and remove themselves from the turbulence and traffic of their lives. In addition to the time and space for intimate communion with God, emotional license is given to each praying person to experience God’s response of liberation. Persons may do grief work, weep, express vulnerability, and make moral resolutions to do the right thing in the future.
Ironically, and fortunately, such intimate, private, personal spiritual work is done in the communal, public context so that one is discouraged from conceptualizing her or his prayer needs nonrelationally. Communal prayer challenges religious privatization as it gathers up the cares of the entire community and articulates them as the common existential expression of the people.” (p. 261)
I considered this book to be, for both theological and practical reasons, well worth the price of purchase and the time for reading.
George R. Pasley
A YELLOW RAFT IN BLUE WATER
A YELLOW RAFT IN BLUE WATER
By Michael Dorris
1987, Warner Books
ISBN0-446-38787-8
372 pages
I loved this book. First, it is a well written story- actually, three stories. Second, it defies what seems (to me) to be the growing norm in literary art, which is stories that are frank in their observation of the awfulness of the human condition, but which make no attempt at finding redemption. This book does the first, and avoids the second.
This book came to me via the local library’s annual book discussion series. The idea is that a few dozen read a book, and then attend a public forum led by a scholar provided by the state library board. Unfortunately, I was ill and missed the discussion.
The book is the story of three generations of women, told first person. What amazed me is that the author achieved a level of authenticity many would deem impossible for a man. Of course, being a man myself, it may only seem that Dorris found an authentic female voice to write the stories. But when I raised this subject with a woman in my church that also read the book, she agreed.
The first story is told by the third generation, a 15 year-old girl, Rayona. Her particular burdens are three: her father has basically abandoned her, she is mixed race (African American father, Native American mother), and she is in constant tension with her mother. In this case, the mother seems not “unreasonable,” but irresponsible. Telling the story herself, she finds a teenaged picture of her mom. She studies it intensely, and then concludes that “Mom is still mom and I am still me.” (p. 36) Rayona’s particular burdens of poor self-esteem begin to find redemption and resolution when she enters a rodeo, is thrown of a bronco, and leaps back on.
The second story is the mother, Christine. Christine and her younger brother were raised without a father- they never even knew who he was. And their mother is never addressed as “Mom,” but instead, as “Aunt Ida”. They take this to mean that she is ashamed of them. Christine’s particular burdens begin when she is disillusioned with the church as a teenager (the world fails to come to its predicted end), a brother killed in Vietnam (she had almost forced hi into enlisting), a lifelong battle with her mother, a husband who abandons her, and a diagnosis of terminal cancer. Christine also suffers from self-esteem problems, though not in the same form as Rayona’s. More so than the other characters. Rayona always seems to be defending herself- to her daughter, to her mother, to the reader, and to society at large.
The third story is told by the grandmother, Ida. There is a very unique plot twist in Ida’s story that I do not want to reveal. Ida’s life comes across as one that is taken advantage of by the previous generation. It is also one that is not understood by the following generation, partly because of the mysteries of their births, and partly because Ida’s favorite technique of arguing is silence.
Both Christine and Ida come across as women intensely in love with their children. Christine, in particular, makes bad choices, but the choices are often inevitable. Both of them are proud women, despite the fact that their lives are in some ways “shameful.”
I wish there was more from Ida- the story ahs a wonderful ending, but it is also abrupt. It does not deal with the death of her son- a huge event in Christine’s story- or with her visit to Christine when Rayona is a child, a trip that seems incredibly consequential after the first part of Ida’s story is told. But still, it is a book that is insightful, compelling, and helpful.
George R. PasleY
By Michael Dorris
1987, Warner Books
ISBN0-446-38787-8
372 pages
I loved this book. First, it is a well written story- actually, three stories. Second, it defies what seems (to me) to be the growing norm in literary art, which is stories that are frank in their observation of the awfulness of the human condition, but which make no attempt at finding redemption. This book does the first, and avoids the second.
This book came to me via the local library’s annual book discussion series. The idea is that a few dozen read a book, and then attend a public forum led by a scholar provided by the state library board. Unfortunately, I was ill and missed the discussion.
The book is the story of three generations of women, told first person. What amazed me is that the author achieved a level of authenticity many would deem impossible for a man. Of course, being a man myself, it may only seem that Dorris found an authentic female voice to write the stories. But when I raised this subject with a woman in my church that also read the book, she agreed.
The first story is told by the third generation, a 15 year-old girl, Rayona. Her particular burdens are three: her father has basically abandoned her, she is mixed race (African American father, Native American mother), and she is in constant tension with her mother. In this case, the mother seems not “unreasonable,” but irresponsible. Telling the story herself, she finds a teenaged picture of her mom. She studies it intensely, and then concludes that “Mom is still mom and I am still me.” (p. 36) Rayona’s particular burdens of poor self-esteem begin to find redemption and resolution when she enters a rodeo, is thrown of a bronco, and leaps back on.
The second story is the mother, Christine. Christine and her younger brother were raised without a father- they never even knew who he was. And their mother is never addressed as “Mom,” but instead, as “Aunt Ida”. They take this to mean that she is ashamed of them. Christine’s particular burdens begin when she is disillusioned with the church as a teenager (the world fails to come to its predicted end), a brother killed in Vietnam (she had almost forced hi into enlisting), a lifelong battle with her mother, a husband who abandons her, and a diagnosis of terminal cancer. Christine also suffers from self-esteem problems, though not in the same form as Rayona’s. More so than the other characters. Rayona always seems to be defending herself- to her daughter, to her mother, to the reader, and to society at large.
The third story is told by the grandmother, Ida. There is a very unique plot twist in Ida’s story that I do not want to reveal. Ida’s life comes across as one that is taken advantage of by the previous generation. It is also one that is not understood by the following generation, partly because of the mysteries of their births, and partly because Ida’s favorite technique of arguing is silence.
Both Christine and Ida come across as women intensely in love with their children. Christine, in particular, makes bad choices, but the choices are often inevitable. Both of them are proud women, despite the fact that their lives are in some ways “shameful.”
I wish there was more from Ida- the story ahs a wonderful ending, but it is also abrupt. It does not deal with the death of her son- a huge event in Christine’s story- or with her visit to Christine when Rayona is a child, a trip that seems incredibly consequential after the first part of Ida’s story is told. But still, it is a book that is insightful, compelling, and helpful.
George R. PasleY
DISCIPLINES OF THE SPIRIT
Disciplines of the Spirit
By Howard Thurman
African-American Howard Thurman (1900-1981), poet, mystic, philosopher, theologian, and Dean of Chapel at two major universities during his career, first published this book in 1963. Obviously it has become a classic, and aside from an occasional poem, it was my first real exposure to his work.
Thurman identifies 5 “disciplines” and discusses each one at length. Why he chose the term “discipline” to describe them I do not know- it implies to me that they are something one can take on and practice, like exercise. But that is not what he is getting at, which is best described in the opening sentences of his foreword:
“The purpose of this book is to examine certain specific aspects of human experience. These aspects are chosen because of their universality and BECAUSE OF THEIR SIGNIFICANCE FOR TUTORING THE HUMAN SPIRIT (emphasis added). There are five such areas included in the discussion: commitment, growth, suffering, prayer, and reconciliation.” (p. 9)
Each discipline (and now I am thinking he uses that term in the manner of “an area of study”) is well explored and articulated, but the discipline by which Thurman most struck me as suffering.
Suffering was a subject well discussed in my seminary classes- most notably in theology, but also in biblical studies. Yet Thurman found some points to consider that were either neglected or touched upon only lightly.
Suffering is both impersonal (“It humiliates and violates the person and very often the dignity of the human spirit,” p. 65) and personal. “Though suffering is a private encounter, and in the last analysis a man must deal with it in solitariness and isolation, it is ultimately reassuring if it can be placed in a frame of reference as universal and comprehensive as life itself.” (p. 66)
“Suffering is a form of physical pain.” (p. 66) Here Thurman probes some ethical consequences of that fact. Denying humanity, or personality, to our enemies makes it easier for us to choose to inflict pain- and even death- on them. In the modern era, we do this most often by demonizing them. Food for thought, there!
Thurman explores the summoning of spiritual resources by the sufferer. “Openings are made in life by suffering that are not made in any other way.” (p. 76) While there is nothing groundbreaking in that observation, Thurman takes one step further and explorers, if only briefly, the lives of those for whom suffering does not make “new openings.” Frankly, he has no answer to explain the dichotomy of experience, but he does have pastoral advice: “…the only thing is to wait it out, to affirm with avid recollection and present insistence that the contradictions of life are never final. All contradictions are held together in an almighty synthesis that gives them, ultimately a meaning and a context.” (p. 77)
Most helpful to me was Thurman’s exploration of the suffering of the innocent. Borrowing an idea from Margaret Kennedy’s novel “The Feast,” Thurman first explorers the idea “that mankind is protected and sustained by undeserved suffering- that swinging out beyond the logic of antecedent and consequence, of sowing and reaping, there is another power, another force, supplementing and restoring the ravages wrought in human life by punishment and reward. The innocent are always present when the payment falls due…Their presence in the world is a stabilizing factor, a precious ingredient maintaining the delicate balance that prevents humanity from p[lunging into the abyss.” (p. 79) This sort of thought was present in my OT 101 study of the suffering servant, but here is the first place I have seen it adequately explained.
Yet Thurman is not completely satisfied with that thought. “But what of those…whose lives are not girded by such a faith…Are these others abandoned by God and left to languish without a witness of His love?” (p. 80)
Thurman then probes the questions that suffering forces on the sufferer, foremost “Why?” Suffering “is part of the life contract that every living being signs at the entrance…To reject suffering is to reject life.” (p. 80) But how does suffering “pay” for its ride (what purpose does it serve?). One immediate conclusion is that without suffering there could be no freedom.
But Thurman has a greater idea. “The ultimate logic of suffering, of course, lies in the fact of death. The particular quality of death is found in what it says about the future. Death is a denial of the validity of the future. This is the logic of all suffering. It is what rallies the spirit and girds man to do battle. Suffering is the gauntlet that death throws down in the arena…Stripped of all cultural accretions and special limitations of specific historic situations, religion…says that life and death take place in a larger context, which religion calls Life. Life and death are the experience of living things, and here Life in some sense becomes identical with God…Death is seen as being an experience WITHIN Life, not happening TO Life (emphasis original).” (p. 81)
This is a thesis that Thurman developed wonderfully over several pages, and I do believe I will find myself referring to it again.
George R. Pasley
July 8, 2002
By Howard Thurman
African-American Howard Thurman (1900-1981), poet, mystic, philosopher, theologian, and Dean of Chapel at two major universities during his career, first published this book in 1963. Obviously it has become a classic, and aside from an occasional poem, it was my first real exposure to his work.
Thurman identifies 5 “disciplines” and discusses each one at length. Why he chose the term “discipline” to describe them I do not know- it implies to me that they are something one can take on and practice, like exercise. But that is not what he is getting at, which is best described in the opening sentences of his foreword:
“The purpose of this book is to examine certain specific aspects of human experience. These aspects are chosen because of their universality and BECAUSE OF THEIR SIGNIFICANCE FOR TUTORING THE HUMAN SPIRIT (emphasis added). There are five such areas included in the discussion: commitment, growth, suffering, prayer, and reconciliation.” (p. 9)
Each discipline (and now I am thinking he uses that term in the manner of “an area of study”) is well explored and articulated, but the discipline by which Thurman most struck me as suffering.
Suffering was a subject well discussed in my seminary classes- most notably in theology, but also in biblical studies. Yet Thurman found some points to consider that were either neglected or touched upon only lightly.
Suffering is both impersonal (“It humiliates and violates the person and very often the dignity of the human spirit,” p. 65) and personal. “Though suffering is a private encounter, and in the last analysis a man must deal with it in solitariness and isolation, it is ultimately reassuring if it can be placed in a frame of reference as universal and comprehensive as life itself.” (p. 66)
“Suffering is a form of physical pain.” (p. 66) Here Thurman probes some ethical consequences of that fact. Denying humanity, or personality, to our enemies makes it easier for us to choose to inflict pain- and even death- on them. In the modern era, we do this most often by demonizing them. Food for thought, there!
Thurman explores the summoning of spiritual resources by the sufferer. “Openings are made in life by suffering that are not made in any other way.” (p. 76) While there is nothing groundbreaking in that observation, Thurman takes one step further and explorers, if only briefly, the lives of those for whom suffering does not make “new openings.” Frankly, he has no answer to explain the dichotomy of experience, but he does have pastoral advice: “…the only thing is to wait it out, to affirm with avid recollection and present insistence that the contradictions of life are never final. All contradictions are held together in an almighty synthesis that gives them, ultimately a meaning and a context.” (p. 77)
Most helpful to me was Thurman’s exploration of the suffering of the innocent. Borrowing an idea from Margaret Kennedy’s novel “The Feast,” Thurman first explorers the idea “that mankind is protected and sustained by undeserved suffering- that swinging out beyond the logic of antecedent and consequence, of sowing and reaping, there is another power, another force, supplementing and restoring the ravages wrought in human life by punishment and reward. The innocent are always present when the payment falls due…Their presence in the world is a stabilizing factor, a precious ingredient maintaining the delicate balance that prevents humanity from p[lunging into the abyss.” (p. 79) This sort of thought was present in my OT 101 study of the suffering servant, but here is the first place I have seen it adequately explained.
Yet Thurman is not completely satisfied with that thought. “But what of those…whose lives are not girded by such a faith…Are these others abandoned by God and left to languish without a witness of His love?” (p. 80)
Thurman then probes the questions that suffering forces on the sufferer, foremost “Why?” Suffering “is part of the life contract that every living being signs at the entrance…To reject suffering is to reject life.” (p. 80) But how does suffering “pay” for its ride (what purpose does it serve?). One immediate conclusion is that without suffering there could be no freedom.
But Thurman has a greater idea. “The ultimate logic of suffering, of course, lies in the fact of death. The particular quality of death is found in what it says about the future. Death is a denial of the validity of the future. This is the logic of all suffering. It is what rallies the spirit and girds man to do battle. Suffering is the gauntlet that death throws down in the arena…Stripped of all cultural accretions and special limitations of specific historic situations, religion…says that life and death take place in a larger context, which religion calls Life. Life and death are the experience of living things, and here Life in some sense becomes identical with God…Death is seen as being an experience WITHIN Life, not happening TO Life (emphasis original).” (p. 81)
This is a thesis that Thurman developed wonderfully over several pages, and I do believe I will find myself referring to it again.
George R. Pasley
July 8, 2002
DRENCHED
Most years I go to Michigan sometime around Thanksgiving, to visit my friends Christian and Tiffany. Christian was a senior when I was a junior at seminary, and Tiffany was a middler that year. We became fast friends, and have been sharing a November holiday for 7 years now. For some reason, I am able to get into a real theological discussion with Christian easier than I do with anyone else, and that is one of the reasons I always look forward to our visit.
Earlier this fall, Christian attended a lecture by Eugene Peterson in Chicago, sponsored by The Christian Century Magazine. He is currently reading a book by Peterson, “The Contemplative Pastor,” and he invited me to read a few chapters while I was there.
Much of our discussion this year seemed to focus on the pros and cons of small churches verses large churches, and how churches (and pastors) can be focused on sharing the good tidings of Jesus Christ. Peterson has something to say about this, it seems to me (I heard him speak at Montreat 3 years ago), but he also has a lot to say about how pastors view and exercise their vocation. In fact, today I read the lecture that Peterson gave in Chicago, in the current edition (“Transparent Lives”, November 29, 2003) of The Christian Century.
The first portion of the article talked about congruence- “doing the Jesus truth in the Jesus way” is the way Peterson summarized it. He envisioned a way of being a pastor in which there is no dissonance between preaching and doing, between word and spirit, between theory and application. And he calls for a contemplative life- arguably, a term ripe for stereotyping, but one that I very much like.
In our discussions, my friend Christian described Peterson’s approach to preparing a sermon- on Sunday morning, the pastor is drenched in the scripture for the day. I thought about that notion as I read Peterson’s article, and I remembered something I had seen and heard when I went to Michigan this year.
On Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, Christian and I went to a concert by the Detroit Symphony Orchestra. Christian is an accomplished musician who currently plays in the Oakland (Michigan) Community Orchestra, while I have only been to two symphony concerts that I can remember- a performance of the Chicago Symphony with guest conductor Arthur Fiedler, in 1970, and a performance by the Ukraine Symphony at Princeton University, in 1996. So I was looking forward to the concert, especially to have a musician with me.
The symphony was guest conducted by Aldo Ceccato, and the second half of the concert featured The New World Symphony, by Antonin Dvorak. During the first half of the concert, I focused my attention on individual musicians, enjoying the way in which they worked at their craft- it seemed different to me, noticing that it was actual physical motion that produced sound, and seeing the intensity of their effort.
Christian told me that Dvorak composed the New World symphony while he was on a boat sailing to America, so during the second half of the concert I attempted to listen to the music and imagine what the composer was saying about America when he composed the symphony. But afterwards, Christian asked me if I had noticed the conductor did not use a score- he had it memorized. I had to admit I didn’t notice that, so we discussed it a bit.
Soloists- and there had been a piano solo in the first half- commonly memorize the pieces they are performing. But it is another caliber of skill for a conductor to memorize a piece, especially a whole symphony- obviously, that means they have to memorize the music of every instrument- oboes, bassoons, trumpets, clarinets, violins, violas, cellos, etc., and so it is very incredible to be there when a conductor does it.
But my friend Christian went on to say that conductors do not memorize just for show. Memorization frees them from worrying about turning pages- and they have more pages, which have to be turned more often, than the musicians. The freedom they gain allows them to focus entirely on the orchestra.
(At the time of this writing, that commentary by my friend reminds me of the comments I got when I used to occasionally preach without notes- always praise, and it had to do with the attention I gave to the congregation, with my eyes. I’ve heard other preachers say the same thing. It was extremely difficult, though, and I worked way to hard to come up with just the right words to risk forgetting them on Sunday morning, so I came up with a compromise.)
On the way home from the symphony, I had a talk with Christian about orchestras, musicians, and conductors. One of the things I asked him was, “What makes a great conductor?”
His answer was A) a thorough (intimate) knowledge of the music, B) knowing each of the instruments in the orchestra and what they could do, and C) being able to get the best out of each musician.
And so when I read Peterson’s essay in The Christian Century, I thought about Christian’s answer: being drenched in scripture certainly sounds a lot like one of the traits being a true conductor. Let me quote a bit from Peterson’s essay:
“Two areas are conspicuously in need of attention these days regarding ways and means, areas in which we’re doing the right thing the wrong way…the two areas are our approaches to congregational life and scripture.” (p. 24)
Regarding congregational life, Peterson says, “The congregation is not about us (meaning pastors, I presume). It is about God.” That sounds a bit like knowing each instrument, and being able to get the best out of it- but Peterson says we do that the wrong way, trying to imagine how we will use each new member to attain our goals for the church. What Peterson points out is that God is the one who draws each member into what God is doing, and the pastor’s role ought to be leading the people to the point where they are willing to place themselves on the altar, and give themselves to God.
Peterson goes on to say, “Scripture is not about us either,” and he devotes more space to working out that proposition. Scripture is about God, not about us, although we are included. He says we to often look for answers, look for rules, look for secrets- “Too many of us read only for information, for know-how, to better ourselves…when we need a break from that, we read for entertainment.” (p. 25)
“So what is the way in regard to scripture? How do we receive this text? Here’s how: by listening and responding and submitting…our reading of this text is a personal listening to a personal God. We listen to God speak our lives into being. We listen to the story that provides a narrative shape and meaning to a life of following Jesus in the conditions of the world. It is prayerful, relational, obedient listening.” (p. 25)
Well, that sounded too me like a great conductor knowing- REALLY knowing, thoroughly and intimately- the music.
George R. Pasley
December 6, 2003
Earlier this fall, Christian attended a lecture by Eugene Peterson in Chicago, sponsored by The Christian Century Magazine. He is currently reading a book by Peterson, “The Contemplative Pastor,” and he invited me to read a few chapters while I was there.
Much of our discussion this year seemed to focus on the pros and cons of small churches verses large churches, and how churches (and pastors) can be focused on sharing the good tidings of Jesus Christ. Peterson has something to say about this, it seems to me (I heard him speak at Montreat 3 years ago), but he also has a lot to say about how pastors view and exercise their vocation. In fact, today I read the lecture that Peterson gave in Chicago, in the current edition (“Transparent Lives”, November 29, 2003) of The Christian Century.
The first portion of the article talked about congruence- “doing the Jesus truth in the Jesus way” is the way Peterson summarized it. He envisioned a way of being a pastor in which there is no dissonance between preaching and doing, between word and spirit, between theory and application. And he calls for a contemplative life- arguably, a term ripe for stereotyping, but one that I very much like.
In our discussions, my friend Christian described Peterson’s approach to preparing a sermon- on Sunday morning, the pastor is drenched in the scripture for the day. I thought about that notion as I read Peterson’s article, and I remembered something I had seen and heard when I went to Michigan this year.
On Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, Christian and I went to a concert by the Detroit Symphony Orchestra. Christian is an accomplished musician who currently plays in the Oakland (Michigan) Community Orchestra, while I have only been to two symphony concerts that I can remember- a performance of the Chicago Symphony with guest conductor Arthur Fiedler, in 1970, and a performance by the Ukraine Symphony at Princeton University, in 1996. So I was looking forward to the concert, especially to have a musician with me.
The symphony was guest conducted by Aldo Ceccato, and the second half of the concert featured The New World Symphony, by Antonin Dvorak. During the first half of the concert, I focused my attention on individual musicians, enjoying the way in which they worked at their craft- it seemed different to me, noticing that it was actual physical motion that produced sound, and seeing the intensity of their effort.
Christian told me that Dvorak composed the New World symphony while he was on a boat sailing to America, so during the second half of the concert I attempted to listen to the music and imagine what the composer was saying about America when he composed the symphony. But afterwards, Christian asked me if I had noticed the conductor did not use a score- he had it memorized. I had to admit I didn’t notice that, so we discussed it a bit.
Soloists- and there had been a piano solo in the first half- commonly memorize the pieces they are performing. But it is another caliber of skill for a conductor to memorize a piece, especially a whole symphony- obviously, that means they have to memorize the music of every instrument- oboes, bassoons, trumpets, clarinets, violins, violas, cellos, etc., and so it is very incredible to be there when a conductor does it.
But my friend Christian went on to say that conductors do not memorize just for show. Memorization frees them from worrying about turning pages- and they have more pages, which have to be turned more often, than the musicians. The freedom they gain allows them to focus entirely on the orchestra.
(At the time of this writing, that commentary by my friend reminds me of the comments I got when I used to occasionally preach without notes- always praise, and it had to do with the attention I gave to the congregation, with my eyes. I’ve heard other preachers say the same thing. It was extremely difficult, though, and I worked way to hard to come up with just the right words to risk forgetting them on Sunday morning, so I came up with a compromise.)
On the way home from the symphony, I had a talk with Christian about orchestras, musicians, and conductors. One of the things I asked him was, “What makes a great conductor?”
His answer was A) a thorough (intimate) knowledge of the music, B) knowing each of the instruments in the orchestra and what they could do, and C) being able to get the best out of each musician.
And so when I read Peterson’s essay in The Christian Century, I thought about Christian’s answer: being drenched in scripture certainly sounds a lot like one of the traits being a true conductor. Let me quote a bit from Peterson’s essay:
“Two areas are conspicuously in need of attention these days regarding ways and means, areas in which we’re doing the right thing the wrong way…the two areas are our approaches to congregational life and scripture.” (p. 24)
Regarding congregational life, Peterson says, “The congregation is not about us (meaning pastors, I presume). It is about God.” That sounds a bit like knowing each instrument, and being able to get the best out of it- but Peterson says we do that the wrong way, trying to imagine how we will use each new member to attain our goals for the church. What Peterson points out is that God is the one who draws each member into what God is doing, and the pastor’s role ought to be leading the people to the point where they are willing to place themselves on the altar, and give themselves to God.
Peterson goes on to say, “Scripture is not about us either,” and he devotes more space to working out that proposition. Scripture is about God, not about us, although we are included. He says we to often look for answers, look for rules, look for secrets- “Too many of us read only for information, for know-how, to better ourselves…when we need a break from that, we read for entertainment.” (p. 25)
“So what is the way in regard to scripture? How do we receive this text? Here’s how: by listening and responding and submitting…our reading of this text is a personal listening to a personal God. We listen to God speak our lives into being. We listen to the story that provides a narrative shape and meaning to a life of following Jesus in the conditions of the world. It is prayerful, relational, obedient listening.” (p. 25)
Well, that sounded too me like a great conductor knowing- REALLY knowing, thoroughly and intimately- the music.
George R. Pasley
December 6, 2003
DOING VERBAL JUSTICE TO LIFE
DOING VERBAL JUSTICE TO LIFE
Last week, while I was on an errand, a man I scarcely know sat down, looked at me, and asked, “What are you reading these days?”
I was a bit startled by this. Yes, I read in public and I probably have become a local oddity, but I’m not sure that HE knows that. But I told him what I was reading lately, “Coming Home to Eat,” by Gary Paul Nabhan. It’s about the politics of food and contains some themes that relate to rural justice issues.
And then he told me what he was reading, “Gettysburg,” by Kent Gramm. And all of a sudden, I knew that he knew I was a reader because if a letter to the editor I wrote that made mention of “Lincoln‘s Greatest Speech,’ by Ronald C. White.
But we ended up trading books- he lent me Gramm’s, and I lent him a book I read the week before, “Abraham Lincoln and the Road to Emancipation 1861-1865” (by William Klingaman, a colleague from the congregation in Maryland that sent me to seminary). Trading books is not something I have done before- I ruin mine by making countless notes in them, and then guard them jealously- but somehow this seemed right. I may need to write a poem, or even an essay on the experience.
I have made notes about the book I borrowed, but I’ve had to discipline myself to make them on a scrap of paper I tore from the placemat at the restaurant where I normally eat my breakfast. The book is fascinating, if difficult, to read. It is not so much history as it is philosophy, and it kind of drives me crazy when Gramm drops a promising historical paragraph to pursue his philosophy. And he kind of goes around and around with his philosophy, but I’m getting the hang of it and like it more the further I read.
The book cover offers very scant clues to Gramm’s background, but his writing makes it obvious that he is very familiar with theology. So, I did an Internet search, and found out that yes, one of his degrees is an MDiv from Princeton (as is one of Ronald C. White’s). But one of my notes is what I want to share with you. It concerns a line of Gramm’s from page 125.
I have been fascinated with some of the recent recovery of the language and importance of lament in modern theology, and some of my poems have been an attempt to express honest lament, and “create room” where we are free to explore its possibilities.
Gramm was not really talking about lament when he described Union General Andrew Humphreys. But he was talking about the need to express our anger and consternation with the world as it is, and this is how he described a peculiar gift of Humphreys’:
“Best of all, he was known for his ‘distinguished and brilliant profanity,’ and was a prodigiously loud swearer. Sometimes what you want most of all is someone to do honest verbal justice to life.”
Well, there is more to the paragraph, but I thought that line particularly powerful.
George R. Pasley
November 19, 2002
Last week, while I was on an errand, a man I scarcely know sat down, looked at me, and asked, “What are you reading these days?”
I was a bit startled by this. Yes, I read in public and I probably have become a local oddity, but I’m not sure that HE knows that. But I told him what I was reading lately, “Coming Home to Eat,” by Gary Paul Nabhan. It’s about the politics of food and contains some themes that relate to rural justice issues.
And then he told me what he was reading, “Gettysburg,” by Kent Gramm. And all of a sudden, I knew that he knew I was a reader because if a letter to the editor I wrote that made mention of “Lincoln‘s Greatest Speech,’ by Ronald C. White.
But we ended up trading books- he lent me Gramm’s, and I lent him a book I read the week before, “Abraham Lincoln and the Road to Emancipation 1861-1865” (by William Klingaman, a colleague from the congregation in Maryland that sent me to seminary). Trading books is not something I have done before- I ruin mine by making countless notes in them, and then guard them jealously- but somehow this seemed right. I may need to write a poem, or even an essay on the experience.
I have made notes about the book I borrowed, but I’ve had to discipline myself to make them on a scrap of paper I tore from the placemat at the restaurant where I normally eat my breakfast. The book is fascinating, if difficult, to read. It is not so much history as it is philosophy, and it kind of drives me crazy when Gramm drops a promising historical paragraph to pursue his philosophy. And he kind of goes around and around with his philosophy, but I’m getting the hang of it and like it more the further I read.
The book cover offers very scant clues to Gramm’s background, but his writing makes it obvious that he is very familiar with theology. So, I did an Internet search, and found out that yes, one of his degrees is an MDiv from Princeton (as is one of Ronald C. White’s). But one of my notes is what I want to share with you. It concerns a line of Gramm’s from page 125.
I have been fascinated with some of the recent recovery of the language and importance of lament in modern theology, and some of my poems have been an attempt to express honest lament, and “create room” where we are free to explore its possibilities.
Gramm was not really talking about lament when he described Union General Andrew Humphreys. But he was talking about the need to express our anger and consternation with the world as it is, and this is how he described a peculiar gift of Humphreys’:
“Best of all, he was known for his ‘distinguished and brilliant profanity,’ and was a prodigiously loud swearer. Sometimes what you want most of all is someone to do honest verbal justice to life.”
Well, there is more to the paragraph, but I thought that line particularly powerful.
George R. Pasley
November 19, 2002
HOW TO PREACH A PARABLE
HOW TO PREACH A PARABLE
By Eugene L. Lowry
Abingdon Press, 1989, 173 pages
ISBN 0-687-17924-6
If you are going to read one book on preaching, read “How To Preach a Parable”, by Eugene Lowry, and wear it out reading it over and over again. Granted, I have not read a great many preaching books, but it is hard to imagine how one could top this one.
The format of the book is most helpful. There is a short section that either introduces, or reminds the reader (depending on their prior experience), of Lowry’s narrative method. Narrative preaching, in Lowry’s fashion, is not merely “telling a story”. There are many possible variables, but the theory is that a good sermon will have a plot that works like a story from beginning to end. After the preliminary issues are dealt with, Lowry offers four sermons from four preachers, and analyzes each one. Within the entire book there are a great many pearls, and I shall try to pick out a few to whet your appetite.
Lowry first encourages the preacher to slow down. “Our intention to plan a sermon (emphasis original) is commendable- and inevitable, for Sunday is fast approaching. Yet our task at this early moment in the preparation process should be to set aside our intentionality in favor of the possibility of inadvertent surprise.” (p. 32) what Lowry is arguing against is imposing our agenda on scripture, and he offers a few ways to avoid it. 1) Read the text out loud, several translations. 2) Look for trouble- what doesn’t seem to fit? What raises your eyebrows? What seems “weird”? This places the preacher in the position of investigator rather than explainer.
The four “designs” that Lowry goes on to analyze are: Running the Story, Delaying the Story, Suspending the Story, and Alternating the Story. Each section features a sermon that illustrates the method, and then Lowry helps the reader to see how the sermon achieved its goal, and how to possibly begin doing that yourself.
Running the Story featured a great sermon by Dennis Willis, “Noah was a Good Man.” I liked this sermon so much that I wanted to find out who Willis was (Lowry tells us that he is deceased), so I searched on the Internet for him, but only found a few references to this sermon in this book. Presumably, he preached other great sermons, somewhere. This sermon is as close as the book comes to the stereotypical narrative sermon, one story from beginning to end, but even this story steps out of that mold at one point, briefly. I like how Lowry describes Willis as a “painter” who leads listener to a spot where he is free to paint what he (the preacher) wants to paint “Because art of all kinds has the potential of grasping us rather than being grasped as ideational material.” (p. 62) Now you see that the point of being open to “inadvertent surprise” early on the process is carried out from beginning to end, so it is always the gospel that grasps us, and not the other way around. Perhaps, though, the most important point that Lowry draws form this sermon is the movement from indicative to imperative. In Lowry’s understanding throughout the book, the imperative (what WE need to do) is always made possible by the indicative (what the gospel has made POSSIBLE for us to do). All the examples, beginning with Willis, do this quickly and by surprise, grasping the hearer.
Delaying the Story features a sermon by Leander Keck, Academic Dean at Yale, from the time when he was a professor at Candler. It is a sermon on Mark’s account of the feeding of 5,000, delivered in a seminary chapel. As with all four of the sermons, Lowry asks the reader to read it aloud. Thus, one can “hear” the sermon the way it really WOULD be heard. Since I do most of my reading in the local café, I did not do this (but maybe I should have!). One of the points, though, is that reading something on print enables us to go back and check things that we can’t do when we are listening to something said. We need to write sermons so that they will work for listening, not for reading.
Keck actually delays the reading of the text until part way through the sermon, and by that time he has already taken the position of the protagonists in the text (something that is often a great technique), the flabbergasted disciples. Keck’s sermon gives some tiny but powerful examples of dealing with exegetical questions- “and now he takes those loaves and fishes and says the blessing and divides them just as any Jewish father would do at home…” Lowry notes how Keck “fits (contextual information) into the sweep of the action” (p. 97). But more importantly, Keck leads the listeners AWAY from another exegetical question. I’ll quote Keck, preceded and followed by Lowry’s comment:
“More important, he doesn’t actually say the crowd was fed. He knows we will say it to ourselves. But in the next paragraph it will be assumed, as he asks, ‘How?’
‘Now our curiosity is strained. We want to know how Jesus did it. But curiosity goes hungry while the crowd is fed. Mark wants us to see the people, not the loaves. The crowd has more than enough to eat, and there were twelve baskets of leftovers. And don’t ask where they got the baskets either!’
Once again Keck is faced with the same old question…about miracle. Again, he doesn’t want us to go on a detour…he utilizes the story’s own imagery in noting that ‘curiosity goes hungry.” (p. 97)
The other thing that was helpful in Lowry’s commentary is that he points out how Keck used other examples from scripture to show how God’s transforming power is always at work. The feeding of the 5000 was not an isolated case. But the sermon ends in such a way those those who walk away would not overtly be praising the preacher, but rather, the God who was proclaimed. Says Lowry, “The point is that our inadequacies, if solved by the evocation of the sermon, are solved by the power of Christ’s blessing. Nothing less can be any sermon’s purpose.” (p. 113)
Suspending the Story featured one of Lowry’s own sermons, a sermon on the laborers in the vineyard. Lowry introduces the chapter this way: “This sermon will begin inside the text, run into a problem, and hence require the telling of the story to be suspended while another text provides a way out of the dilemma. Once accomplished, the sermonic process moves back to the central text for the completion of the message.” (p. 115) There were some really good suggestions here regarding lateral moves within the sermon, but perhaps the most helpful thing that Lowry offered was not uniquely connected to this form, and that was the issue of questioning the text.
“…There comes great relief for many people when a preacher ‘dares’ to ask what they have always wanted to ask. Moreover, there are many in most congregations who are close to illiterate about the Bible who can be helped by this procedure. Certainly, one defense against having to ever read the Bible is the presumed attitude that people who have read it are precisely those who do not question it. This misplaced ‘respect’ has contributed to the next generation’s ignorance- at least I have found it so in some congregations I have served. After all, if you don’t read it, you won’t know what you ought to believe and don’t. My experience is that sermons that include such questioning are the ones that tend to draw the greatest amount of substantive comments after the service.” (p. 137)
But back to the sermon, questioning the text in the sermon serves the purpose of helping the listener investigate along with the preacher. It should be noted, however, that Lowry insists that if the preacher cannot find a way out of his questions, he or she should not use the text. “The sermon must find a way out of the apparent dilemma.” (p. 138)
In the weeks since I read this book, I have tried several of its techniques. My attempts have been rather crude, compared to the examples Lowry supplied, especially so my “questioning” of the text. But, like Lowry, I found it was appreciated.
The final form, Alternating the Story, begins with a sermon by Fred Craddock. And it was here that, in my opinion, Lowry is at his pedagogical best. Craddock is a genius, and Lowry knows it. He knows that we are likely to read Craddock, say, “I wish I could preach like that,” and then go back to preaching the way we do. But Lowry offers ways to LEARN to do what Craddock does.
One of the most prominent features of Craddock sermons are freely created stories. Lowry talks about how this technique serves the sermon, but “There is another, perhaps more important, purpose for preachers attempting such freely invented stories. Such recreations will open the mind of the preacher. I suggest their use even if the final result is not good enough to be included in the finished sermon. Before the shock of recognition can occur for listeners, it needs to occur for the preacher. Freely invented stories often promote that shock.” (p. 167)
In another section, Lowry marvels at Craddock’s choice of words, in this case “rearranging the dust” (referring to a struggling farmer in a bad year). First, he notes that adjectives and adverbs are modifiers, and “most of us are not greatly impacted by an alteration. We are impacted by a radically new and different image. To do that, one needs the power of nouns and verbs” (p. 163). With regard to Craddock’s genius, Lowry says, “We may think the result of our efforts a bit feeble in comparison. But the proper comparison is not with anyone else; the proper comparison is between how we do things now and how we might do things…Find another term for the usual one, then find another context for the new term, and then find a phrase associated with that other context” (p. 164)
But I would like to add a thought, and I add it because Lowry was so enamored with “rearranging the dust”. I don’t know much about Lowry’s background, but I do know that some of Craddock’s early preaching was in Oklahoma. So I suggest that Craddock may be a good listener. Not in the east, but In Kansas, during times when crops AND prices were good (a long time ago), I heard farmers repeat the phrase “playing in the dirt”. Listen to what people are saying. We have a way of coining our own phrases. Listen, and it is not too hard to move from “playing in the dirt” in good times, to “rearranging the dust” in bad times.
“When listeners begin to believe the preacher knows them better than they know themselves, a kind of communion emerges…when (Craddock) said: ‘Let me tell you a story.’ Who would say no?” (p. 170).
Not me!
George R. Pasley
September 23, 2002
By Eugene L. Lowry
Abingdon Press, 1989, 173 pages
ISBN 0-687-17924-6
If you are going to read one book on preaching, read “How To Preach a Parable”, by Eugene Lowry, and wear it out reading it over and over again. Granted, I have not read a great many preaching books, but it is hard to imagine how one could top this one.
The format of the book is most helpful. There is a short section that either introduces, or reminds the reader (depending on their prior experience), of Lowry’s narrative method. Narrative preaching, in Lowry’s fashion, is not merely “telling a story”. There are many possible variables, but the theory is that a good sermon will have a plot that works like a story from beginning to end. After the preliminary issues are dealt with, Lowry offers four sermons from four preachers, and analyzes each one. Within the entire book there are a great many pearls, and I shall try to pick out a few to whet your appetite.
Lowry first encourages the preacher to slow down. “Our intention to plan a sermon (emphasis original) is commendable- and inevitable, for Sunday is fast approaching. Yet our task at this early moment in the preparation process should be to set aside our intentionality in favor of the possibility of inadvertent surprise.” (p. 32) what Lowry is arguing against is imposing our agenda on scripture, and he offers a few ways to avoid it. 1) Read the text out loud, several translations. 2) Look for trouble- what doesn’t seem to fit? What raises your eyebrows? What seems “weird”? This places the preacher in the position of investigator rather than explainer.
The four “designs” that Lowry goes on to analyze are: Running the Story, Delaying the Story, Suspending the Story, and Alternating the Story. Each section features a sermon that illustrates the method, and then Lowry helps the reader to see how the sermon achieved its goal, and how to possibly begin doing that yourself.
Running the Story featured a great sermon by Dennis Willis, “Noah was a Good Man.” I liked this sermon so much that I wanted to find out who Willis was (Lowry tells us that he is deceased), so I searched on the Internet for him, but only found a few references to this sermon in this book. Presumably, he preached other great sermons, somewhere. This sermon is as close as the book comes to the stereotypical narrative sermon, one story from beginning to end, but even this story steps out of that mold at one point, briefly. I like how Lowry describes Willis as a “painter” who leads listener to a spot where he is free to paint what he (the preacher) wants to paint “Because art of all kinds has the potential of grasping us rather than being grasped as ideational material.” (p. 62) Now you see that the point of being open to “inadvertent surprise” early on the process is carried out from beginning to end, so it is always the gospel that grasps us, and not the other way around. Perhaps, though, the most important point that Lowry draws form this sermon is the movement from indicative to imperative. In Lowry’s understanding throughout the book, the imperative (what WE need to do) is always made possible by the indicative (what the gospel has made POSSIBLE for us to do). All the examples, beginning with Willis, do this quickly and by surprise, grasping the hearer.
Delaying the Story features a sermon by Leander Keck, Academic Dean at Yale, from the time when he was a professor at Candler. It is a sermon on Mark’s account of the feeding of 5,000, delivered in a seminary chapel. As with all four of the sermons, Lowry asks the reader to read it aloud. Thus, one can “hear” the sermon the way it really WOULD be heard. Since I do most of my reading in the local café, I did not do this (but maybe I should have!). One of the points, though, is that reading something on print enables us to go back and check things that we can’t do when we are listening to something said. We need to write sermons so that they will work for listening, not for reading.
Keck actually delays the reading of the text until part way through the sermon, and by that time he has already taken the position of the protagonists in the text (something that is often a great technique), the flabbergasted disciples. Keck’s sermon gives some tiny but powerful examples of dealing with exegetical questions- “and now he takes those loaves and fishes and says the blessing and divides them just as any Jewish father would do at home…” Lowry notes how Keck “fits (contextual information) into the sweep of the action” (p. 97). But more importantly, Keck leads the listeners AWAY from another exegetical question. I’ll quote Keck, preceded and followed by Lowry’s comment:
“More important, he doesn’t actually say the crowd was fed. He knows we will say it to ourselves. But in the next paragraph it will be assumed, as he asks, ‘How?’
‘Now our curiosity is strained. We want to know how Jesus did it. But curiosity goes hungry while the crowd is fed. Mark wants us to see the people, not the loaves. The crowd has more than enough to eat, and there were twelve baskets of leftovers. And don’t ask where they got the baskets either!’
Once again Keck is faced with the same old question…about miracle. Again, he doesn’t want us to go on a detour…he utilizes the story’s own imagery in noting that ‘curiosity goes hungry.” (p. 97)
The other thing that was helpful in Lowry’s commentary is that he points out how Keck used other examples from scripture to show how God’s transforming power is always at work. The feeding of the 5000 was not an isolated case. But the sermon ends in such a way those those who walk away would not overtly be praising the preacher, but rather, the God who was proclaimed. Says Lowry, “The point is that our inadequacies, if solved by the evocation of the sermon, are solved by the power of Christ’s blessing. Nothing less can be any sermon’s purpose.” (p. 113)
Suspending the Story featured one of Lowry’s own sermons, a sermon on the laborers in the vineyard. Lowry introduces the chapter this way: “This sermon will begin inside the text, run into a problem, and hence require the telling of the story to be suspended while another text provides a way out of the dilemma. Once accomplished, the sermonic process moves back to the central text for the completion of the message.” (p. 115) There were some really good suggestions here regarding lateral moves within the sermon, but perhaps the most helpful thing that Lowry offered was not uniquely connected to this form, and that was the issue of questioning the text.
“…There comes great relief for many people when a preacher ‘dares’ to ask what they have always wanted to ask. Moreover, there are many in most congregations who are close to illiterate about the Bible who can be helped by this procedure. Certainly, one defense against having to ever read the Bible is the presumed attitude that people who have read it are precisely those who do not question it. This misplaced ‘respect’ has contributed to the next generation’s ignorance- at least I have found it so in some congregations I have served. After all, if you don’t read it, you won’t know what you ought to believe and don’t. My experience is that sermons that include such questioning are the ones that tend to draw the greatest amount of substantive comments after the service.” (p. 137)
But back to the sermon, questioning the text in the sermon serves the purpose of helping the listener investigate along with the preacher. It should be noted, however, that Lowry insists that if the preacher cannot find a way out of his questions, he or she should not use the text. “The sermon must find a way out of the apparent dilemma.” (p. 138)
In the weeks since I read this book, I have tried several of its techniques. My attempts have been rather crude, compared to the examples Lowry supplied, especially so my “questioning” of the text. But, like Lowry, I found it was appreciated.
The final form, Alternating the Story, begins with a sermon by Fred Craddock. And it was here that, in my opinion, Lowry is at his pedagogical best. Craddock is a genius, and Lowry knows it. He knows that we are likely to read Craddock, say, “I wish I could preach like that,” and then go back to preaching the way we do. But Lowry offers ways to LEARN to do what Craddock does.
One of the most prominent features of Craddock sermons are freely created stories. Lowry talks about how this technique serves the sermon, but “There is another, perhaps more important, purpose for preachers attempting such freely invented stories. Such recreations will open the mind of the preacher. I suggest their use even if the final result is not good enough to be included in the finished sermon. Before the shock of recognition can occur for listeners, it needs to occur for the preacher. Freely invented stories often promote that shock.” (p. 167)
In another section, Lowry marvels at Craddock’s choice of words, in this case “rearranging the dust” (referring to a struggling farmer in a bad year). First, he notes that adjectives and adverbs are modifiers, and “most of us are not greatly impacted by an alteration. We are impacted by a radically new and different image. To do that, one needs the power of nouns and verbs” (p. 163). With regard to Craddock’s genius, Lowry says, “We may think the result of our efforts a bit feeble in comparison. But the proper comparison is not with anyone else; the proper comparison is between how we do things now and how we might do things…Find another term for the usual one, then find another context for the new term, and then find a phrase associated with that other context” (p. 164)
But I would like to add a thought, and I add it because Lowry was so enamored with “rearranging the dust”. I don’t know much about Lowry’s background, but I do know that some of Craddock’s early preaching was in Oklahoma. So I suggest that Craddock may be a good listener. Not in the east, but In Kansas, during times when crops AND prices were good (a long time ago), I heard farmers repeat the phrase “playing in the dirt”. Listen to what people are saying. We have a way of coining our own phrases. Listen, and it is not too hard to move from “playing in the dirt” in good times, to “rearranging the dust” in bad times.
“When listeners begin to believe the preacher knows them better than they know themselves, a kind of communion emerges…when (Craddock) said: ‘Let me tell you a story.’ Who would say no?” (p. 170).
Not me!
George R. Pasley
September 23, 2002
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